


Divide By Two

by Cthonical (Nellie)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Desperation, Impregnation, M/M, Marking, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Possessive Behavior, Scent Kink, Scenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:06:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nellie/pseuds/Cthonical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alpha/Omega-verse. They're on the run, snowed in, and Arthur's in heat. Nothing ever did go easy for them, but they'll make it work. They always do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divide By Two

“We should go,” Eames says, frowning at the thick, dark clouds rolling in over the skeletal trees. 

Arthur’s standing beside him on the porch, dressed far too light for the chill in the air, but the smell of him is enough to tell Eames why he’s not bothered by the cold. “No,” he says. “Even if we made it back to the city before the blizzard hits, Parkinson would pick up our trail as soon as we try to go any further.” He shakes his head. “We should wait it out.”

Eames glances at him. There’s no real outward sign, not yet, only that familiar scent that makes Eames want to bite the back of Arthur’s neck and lick him all over. “But--”

“I _know_ , Eames, but there’s nothing we can fucking do about it now.” Arthur turns around and stalks back into the cabin, leaving Eames to follow. 

“Did you at least look around?” Eames asks.

“I looked,” Arthur says, fussing with the guns laid out on the rough timber table for cleaning. “I found some lotion and a big jar of vaseline, but no, no condoms.”

The tension’s obvious in Arthur’s voice, and Eames walks up behind him, settling his hands on his narrow hips. Fuck, he really does smell good, and Eames gives in to the urge to lick the sensitive spot beneath his ear. “What are we going to do then?”

“There’s nothing we _can_ do. I’ll be nearly a hundred fucking percent fertile.”

Eames digs his fingers into Arthur’s hips. It’s a bad thing. It’s a very, _very_ bad thing considering they have no condoms and Arthur’s body is going to want sex like it needs air. But obviously the smell of his imminent heat is really starting to get to Eames too, because the words _hundred fucking percent fertile_ shouldn’t make him want to hold Arthur down and fuck him bare for hours. “I know,” he says, nuzzling up the side of Arthur’s throat to bite gently at his ear.

Arthur submits to it for a few seconds, tilting his neck to let Eames run his tongue along the tendon, before pulling away again. He’s restless, pacing, and Eames knows it’s only the beginning of a long, difficult night. Which is annoying, because usually heats mean a week off to go through a whole lot of condoms and wreck some bedsheets together, not something to worry about.

Eames grabs him again before he can bend over and start fussing with some of the pillows on their makeshift bed of blankets and cushions on the floor, holding him tight so he can’t slip away. “I’ll take care of you, love,” he murmurs in Arthur’s ear. “We’ll be fine.”

*

“It doesn’t _feel_ right,” Arthur gasps, twisting like the thrust of Eames’s fingers inside him is too much to bear. 

Eames knows better. For some people, the onset of a heat is a gradual burn, something relatively painless to ease into. Arthur’s never been so lucky, and the hormonal desperation hit him just as suddenly as the storm raging outside hit the cabin. “Do you need a break?” he asks, holding his fingers still and stroking down the sweat-streaked skin of Arthur’s thigh.

“I need your cock,” Arthur snaps, reaching down to grab his wrist and force his fingers deeper again. “Oh fuck, yeah, like that, _please_.”

Eames shifts position between Arthur’s spread thighs to make the grip Arthur has on his wrist less painful, but lets him keep control. It’s almost safer, in a way, because control isn’t something Eames is sure he’s got a lot of, not with Arthur spread out naked in the firelight and begging for his cock.

“Does that feel better?” he spreads his fingers as Arthur pushes them deeper.

“Kind of,” his thighs shudder, and Eames leans down enough to lick the trickle of sweat from the inside of Arthur’s knee. “It’s okay for now, I, _ah_ , guess.”

He works Eames’s hand harder, and Eames lets him, watches the way his fingers sink in and out of Arthur’s body where he’s wet and so open. It’d be easy to tug his hand away and shove Arthur’s thighs wide so he can fit, but... Eames presses his free hand against Arthur’s trembling belly, feels the heat trapped just under his skin. It’s meant to remind him why he’s _not_ fucking him, but oh god he wants to, wants to slide inside him and fill him with come until it takes.

That’s a dangerous train of thought, especially with the smell of Arthur so ready and desperate for him threatening to short circuit his brain entirely, so Eames focuses on his face instead. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Like... I don’t know, I just want you to fuck me, oh fuck, please, please--”

Arthur’s already come three times, but his body twists and arches anyway, dark hair sticking to his temples as he thrashes his head back and forth.

Eames pulls his fingers free of the clenching heat and leans down to lap soothingly at the trickle of come as a fourth orgasm wracks him. His skin is so hot, fever hot, and Eames licks him clean as if his tongue could soothe some of the burn. 

“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur cries out, grabbing at his hair when he moves lower to flick his tongue across the quivering skin of his hole.

Eames ignores the fingernails digging into his scalp and pushes Arthur’s legs a little higher and wider so he can lap at him more easily, soft strokes with the flat of his tongue intended to calm rather than arouse. 

“No, no, no,” Arthur thrashes, shoving his head away and scrambling to sit up.

“You don’t like it?” Eames sits back up too, circling his hands around Arthur’s ankles and rubbing at the bone just under the slick skin. He wants to touch all of him, all at once, even on the inside, and he fights down the instinct roiling in his belly that wants him to shove Arthur down and rut inside him until they both pass out.

“I do, I just...” Arthur lifts a shaky hand to rake through his hair, the flickering light catching on the flex of his damp skin. “I just want...”

He surges forward so fast Eames only barely catches his balance and stops them both from falling backwards. Arthur straddles his hips, rubbing up against his skin everywhere they touch, panting in his ear. “I want you inside me,” he whispers, rolling his hips in a way that rubs the slick cleft of his arse against Eames’s cock. “I fucking _need_ you inside me, right now.”

Eames sucks in a breath and steadies his hands on Arthur’s hips. “You’re killing me,” he says, licking at Arthur’s throat, biting at the spot where his scent is strongest, overpowering. “You know I want it, Arthur, fuck.”

Arthur whimpers then, a pitiful sound as he lifts his hips and rubs down, teasing dangerously close. If Eames pushed on his hips, he could slide him down onto his cock. It’d be effortless, and oh fuck, the look on Arthur’s face when he throws his head back and takes it... 

He growls, rolling them back down onto the rumpled blankets. It’s easier not to be looking at the desperation on Arthur’s face, so Eames pulls him back against his chest and buries his face in the damp hair just behind his ear. “I love fucking you like this,” he says, fitting his knee between Arthur’s legs and forcing them apart. “I _always_ love fucking you, but you know I can’t.”

“I want you to,” Arthur moans, squirming, reaching back to shove Eames’s hand away from his hip, back down to his arse. 

There’s nothing that could stop Eames obliging him there. He thrusts three fingers in to spread Arthur wide again, but it’s a pale imitation of what he really needs. 

Arthur arches back harder onto Eames’s fingers, grinding against his thigh. “More, please, Eames, I can’t.”

The roaring wind swallows most of Arthur’s sob as Eames eases the fourth finger in, and he slides his other hand up to slip two fingers over Arthur’s trembling lower lip into his mouth. “Is that better?” he murmurs when Arthur sucks them, calming a little. “You just want to be full of me, don’t you. Everything, all at once.”

Arthur moans around his fingers and Eames pushes them deeper, fighting the primal urge to just push his cock in alongside his fingers. The beautiful thing is he knows Arthur could take it, would fucking beg for it. He knows exactly how well they fit together. 

He gives in and rubs his cock against the slick curve of Arthur’s arse, pumping his fingers faster. It’s always so intense when Arthur is like this, better, hotter; which is saying something considering how good the sex usually is. But his heat just drives everything to the very edge, and Eames wants to fuck him so badly the desperation almost hurts.

“You’re mine,” he says, twisting his fingers and drawing a long, muffled moan from Arthur. “I should be in you right now.”

Arthur nods, little sounds of agreement vibrating through Eames’s fingers and going straight to his cock.

“Up,” he says, letting Arthur go. “Up on your knees.”

There are few things Eames likes better than the slope of Arthur’s back when he’s kneeling down waiting to be fucked. It’s a risk letting him offer himself up like this, when he smells like sex and desperation and looks like the best thing Eames has ever touched in his life, but he’s no use to Arthur if he’s out of his own fucking mind, and he needs to come almost as badly.

He picks up the lotion from the edge of the blankets and squirts some into his palm. It’s cold compared to the heat rolling off Arthur’s skin, but he doesn’t wait before easing Arthur’s thighs open and slicking them even more. “You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss between his shoulder blades as he runs his hand up higher to squeeze Arthur’s balls. 

“Fuck me then,” Arthur says, twisting his hands in the blankets. “Fuck, fuck, I need it so bad Eames, please.”

It hurts to hear him beg and not be able to do anything about it. Eames turns his hand and slides his thumb inside him, pressing down towards his belly and getting a satisfying cry in return. “You know I would, love,” he says, shifting closer to press his cock between Arthur’s thighs. It’s nowhere near as good as being buried inside him would be, but if Arthur has to make do, so can he. He drapes himself over Arthur’s back, touching as much skin as he can. “I’m sorry I can’t give you want you want.”

Arthur thrashes under him. “Need it,” he sobs, bucking his hips. “Need it, please.”

Eames grabs his hips and bites down on the nape of his neck, hard, growling against his skin. He can barely even _think_ beyond the smell of his mate filling him up and making him hard and wanting, and he needs him to stop, even if just for a second.

Arthur whimpers, but it’s a soft, submissive sound that fills Eames with an entirely different kind of warmth. He sinks his teeth a little deeper, tasting Arthur’s sweat and trying to calm down.

Arthur takes it like the perfect mate he is, dipping his head lower and spreading his legs wider. He’s quiet and still for the first time in hours, but his body is screaming _I submit, mount me now_ even louder than before.

“You can fuck me,” he says, finally, breaking the stillness of the moment. “Just... fuck me and pull out before you knot. Just give me your cock, please.”

Slowly, Eames lets go of the nape of his neck. “Are you sure?”

“I have never needed anything more in my life, Eames, do it.” He tilts his hips, rocking back against Eames’s cock, and the friction is enough to make up his mind. 

“I’ll pull out,” he repeats, stroking his cock once and rubbing the tip against the wet heat of Arthur’s skin.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, arching graceful and catlike in the firelight. 

Eames swallows and pushes in an inch before stopping, and Arthur goes wild. 

“Oh no, no, don’t stop, please don’t stop, fuck me, please fuck me please.”

“This is a terrible idea,” he mutters, gripping Arthur’s hips to stop him hurting himself with the force of his writhing. 

“I don’t _care_.” Arthur shoves himself back, hard enough to take Eames to the hilt, and it’s perfect and effortless and exactly how they’re supposed to be.

“Fuck, Arthur,” Eames groans, leaning back down over the muscular curve of his spine to bite at the nape of his neck again. “You’re perfect.”

The sound Arthur makes is happy rather than pained, and Eames fucks into him harder, giving him exactly what he needs. It’s so easy to get lost in the rhythm of it, Arthur’s tight clenching heat taking him in like he was fucking made for it. Eames forces Arthur lower, clinging to the nape of his neck with his teeth and growling on every thrust in. He’s not going to last long after hours of foreplay, but he’ll pull out. Soon. He’ll come all over the small of Arthur’s back and the roundness of his arse then lick him clean before starting all over again. 

The thought makes him drive in harder, licking along Arthur’s shoulder and biting down again hard enough to taste blood.

“Yes, fuck, Eames,” Arthur pants, matching his pace with delicious rolls of his slim hips. 

“I told you I’d take care of you,” Eames says, wrapping one arm around under Arthur to hitch him higher and angle his thrusts downwards against the sensitive parts of him that can make him sob and cry and beg even when he’s not in heat. Eames splays his hand over his belly. If he comes inside him right now, the flat plane of his stomach will give way to a pregnant roundness, and nobody will be able to look at him and not know that he’s claimed.

“ _Eames_.”

The sound of Arthur’s voice cuts through the haze as his cock throbs and swells, locking him deep inside. “Fuck,” he murmurs, thighs trembling.

Arthur writhes against the knot, and Eames tries to hold him steady even as his orgasm rolls over him.

“Yeah,” Arthur sobs. “Fuck, yeah, feels so good, wet, yeah.”

Eames rubs Arthur’s stomach slowly and forces in a little deeper, feeling the clench and quiver of Arthur’s muscles under his hand. “You feel that?”

“‘s good,” Arthur says, resting his head on his forearms and shifting his hips, testing the sensation of the knot spreading him open. “Really good.”

He relaxes down even more, and it takes Eames a second to get them both into a more comfortable position, tucked tight against Arthur’s back with a knee between his legs and one hand still on his belly. He’s quiet now, letting his head loll back against Eames’s shoulder. 

“You feel better now?” Eames asks, nuzzling his hair and stroking down low on his belly where his skin is still twitching and hot.

“Feel full. And wet.” He arches, tugging at the tie between them and sending a fresh burst of pleasure up Eames’s spine before settling. “Good.”

“Good,” Eames echoes. He kisses the edge of Arthur’s jaw and curls his fingers just beneath his belly button. Maybe he’s filled Arthur with more than just his cock and some come tonight. 

He shivers, rubbing more purposefully at Arthur’s belly.

It doesn’t feel like such a bad thing.

*

Eames wakes up cold, opening bleary eyes to a burnt down fire and snow drifts packed against the window panes. The makeshift bed is freezing without the furnace of Arthur’s heat-induced warmth to hold close, and Eames drags a blanket up with him as he stands. 

Arthur’s not in the main room, but it’s pretty normal to wake up alone during a heat. He’s probably busy fingering himself in the shower or something, if past experience is any indication. 

It takes a minute to find his pants and jumper from where Arthur pulled them off and threw them aside last night, and Eames stokes up the coals and throws some wood onto them before going looking for Arthur. There’s not exactly far to go; the cabin is only three rooms big, and Eames finds Arthur standing in the bathroom as expected. 

“Morning, love,” he says, appreciating how low Arthur’s track pants are sitting on his hips. “How’re you?”

“Fine,” Arthur says, frowning, and Eames notices the way he’s focused on the mirror, palms splayed over his belly. “I’m absolutely fine.”

Eames’s heart jumps into his throat and he steps up behind him, sliding his own hands around to cover Arthur’s. He’s right. His skin is cool to the touch, not a trace of the heat fever left. When he dips his head to sniff at the spot beneath Arthur’s jaw, nothing grabs him but the familiar, comforting scent of his mate.

He looks up to meet Arthur’s eyes in the mirror. “Your heat’s gone already.”

“It is. Completely. After less than fifteen hours.”

Eames shifts his hands a little lower, lets his fingers graze Arthur’s hip bones. At the best of times, a heat might end after a couple of days. There’s really only one thing that can stop it dead in its tracks, and all of a sudden it feels like there’s not enough air in the tiny room. 

“Eames, gentle,” Arthur says softly, prying his fingers off his hips. 

“You’re--” he sniffs again, and now that he’s expecting it, there _is_ something different under Arthur’s smell. Subtle and barely there, but enough for Eames to notice. “Fuck, Arthur, you’re--”

“Yeah, I think I am.”

What Eames wants to do is spin Arthur around and kiss him. Instead, he settles his hands back on Arthur’s hips and resists the urge to press his palm to the flat of his belly, touch close to the life he put there. “I... fuck, I’m sorry.” They’ve never talked about this, even though the possibility has always been there. “We...” he almost chokes on it, but he makes himself say it. “You don’t have to do this.”

Arthur stops smoothing his hands back and forth over his stomach. “What do you mean?”

“I mean there are options,” Eames says. “We didn’t exactly plan for this.”

“Are you saying you think I should have an abortion?”

Eames growls, tensing his hands on Arthur’s hips even though every instinct wants him to wrap them protectively over Arthur’s stomach. “No, I don’t think so. But I’m saying you can, if you want.” He rests his face against Arthur’s hair. He really doesn’t think so. He’s fucking terrified of how badly he doesn’t think so. But the choice is as easy as breathing to him... he wants to watch Arthur get big with his baby. He _wants_ this with him, even if they have never talked about it before.

A heartbeat later Arthur’s fingers slide over his, guiding them back to his belly and pressing them down against his skin. “I don’t want to. I feel...” his fingers flex. “I feel really good, actually. I mean, this is going to be fucking hell on our paper trail, but between us we can probably make it work.”

Eames looks up, and Arthur smiles, that little, dangerous smile that usually means they’re about to end up arse-deep in something terrible that they’ll both end up enjoying the fuck out of. “So, how do you feel about having a baby?”

Eames turns him around, kissing him hard on the mouth before he has a chance to catch his breath. “Yes,” he says, resting his forehead against Arthur’s. “Fuck yes.”

*

“We’ll meet the rest of the team at the Mariot at eleven,” Arthur says from the hotel bathroom, voice muffled by his toothbrush.

“You said that already,” Eames replies, sorting falsified bail paperwork and birth certificates into different folders.

Arthur spits, and there’s a few seconds of running water before he comes out of the bathroom and starts picking through his suitcase. “I just want everything to go to plan.”

Eames glances up. Arthur’s only got a towel slung around his waist, tucked under the subtle four-month swell of his belly, and having months to get used to the idea doesn’t make it any less of a thrill every time he sees it.

“Are you sure you want to wear that?” he raises an eyebrow at the sweater Arthur lays out on the bed beside one of his looser pairs of dress pants.

“Absolutely sure,” Arthur says, considering for a second and putting out a collared shirt to wear underneath. 

Eames can already see the way that sweater will cling to the curve of Arthur’s stomach, and as satisfying as the thought is he doesn’t really feel like being utterly distracted by the sight of it all day. Not when this is their last real job in the field, and he wants to go out on a good note.

“I’m wearing it, take it or leave it.” Arthur straightens up and throws the sweater onto the coffee table, rubbing little circles on his stomach as he heads back into the bathroom.

Eames picks up the sweater like it might bite. “I thought we weren’t telling anyone?”

“Don’t touch my stomach once during the day, and I bet you nobody will know.”

The sound of the shower spray puts an end to any more argument, and Eames turns his attention back to the sleek grey sweater. It smells faintly of Arthur and mostly of laundry detergent. Both scents are easy to cover, but he nuzzles at it for longer than is probably strictly necessary, rubbing the soft wool against the curve of his jaw and throat until he can only smell himself on it when he sniffs.

He gets up to lay it back down on the bed and takes an extra minute to pick up the shirt, too, marking it along the collar and cuffs so even if nobody _does_ notice how fucking pregnant Arthur is, they’ll scent the alpha all over him and know he’s mated anyway. 

Satisfied, he turns back to finish sorting through the forged paperwork.

*

By quarter to eleven Eames is leaning against the wall by the Mariot’s elevators while Arthur picks up the room details from the reception. The way he moves has already changed; the slightest shift in his centre of balance, the way he subconsciously brushes his hand over his stomach often enough to be obvious. 

Eames rolls the toothpick with his tongue. Or maybe it’s just obvious because there’s nobody in the world who knows Arthur’s usual mannerisms like he does. Regardless, the slight bump breaking the smooth lines of his body is getting bigger every day, and it won’t be long before there’ll be no way to hide it or pass it off as a bit of extra weight gain from their sabbatical in Sweden. 

He grins at Arthur as he walks up, keycard in hand.

“What are you smiling about?” Arthur says, hitting the elevator buttons.

“Just you.” Eames follows him into next one that opens and waits until the doors slide shut to continue. “The books don’t lie, Arthur, you’re fucking glowing.”

“Head in the game, Eames. We can discuss my luminosity after we get paid.” As serious as he sounds, his lips are curved in a Mona Lisa smile, fingertips trailing over the arc of his belly before dropping to his side. 

Eames steps a little closer and settles his hand on the small of Arthur’s back, just to be touching him. Instead of the familiar dip at the base of his spine, the stark shape of a handgun and holster stand out. “You brought a gun to this?” He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t trust Richard?”

“Of course I don’t fucking trust him,” Arthur snorts.

“But you still picked this job?” Eames thought he was used to muffling the instincts that demand he keep Arthur safe and naked and somewhere far out of harm’s way, but the way he smells now, _knowing_ that he’s carrying their child right there just under his skin makes them burn a hundred times hotter.

Arthur shrugs. “It was this or Davis, and--”

“Say no more,” Eames growls. He’d far sooner punch Davis in the face than put up with him being in the same room as his pregnant mate, after the shit he pulled in Dubai. He splays his hand across the swell of Arthur’s stomach. “Mine.”

Arthur strokes his fingers until the doors slide open. “Yours.”

*

The job’s pretty standard high-end corporate espionage, nothing too dangerous. Eames likes these kind of jobs, because they get to work in swank hotels and very rarely end up getting shot at. As straight forward and comfortable as it is, though, everything seems to be setting him on edge. He watches surreptitiously over the top of his folder as Arthur wanders around the dining table, leaning over here and there to make annotations to the dream layout blueprint. He laughs every so often at something the extractor says, and Eames wasn’t lying... Arthur’s full of something subtle and indescribable that makes Eames want to pin him down and tickle him just to see his face light up like that.

Despite the way Arthur looks and smells calling to him in a hormonal siren song and making his fingers itch to stroke him, Eames thinks he’s doing a pretty admirable job of not giving the game away until just after lunch, when Richard leans over the back of the grey leather lounge.

“Arthur’s pregnant,” he says nonchalantly, and Eames glances up to see him looking over at the table where Arthur’s still busy hashing out the layout details with Darcy, the woman Richard hired to extract. “I guess that explains why he was so pissy when I wanted him to come down with us.” 

“I’m well aware. I’m the one who got him that way.” It’s a warning more than a revelation, because anyone they work with knows that there’s nobody else either of them would have touched in the last four years. “We’re not exactly spreading it around yet.”

Richard walks around to the front of the couch and sits down beside him. “You don’t really have to, not with the way he’s protecting that bulge and you’re staring at him like you don’t know whether you want to kill everyone else in the room for looking at him or fuck him. Or both.” He tilts his head. “Understandable, though.”

There’s only one person in the room Eames feels at all like killing and he’s sitting next to him right now, stinking dangerously of unfamiliar alpha and bringing all the territorial violence roaring back to life. “Stay the fuck away from him.”

“Calm down. I’m just saying. How’re those requisition forms coming along, anyway?”

Eames slowly loosens his grip on the pile of papers in his hand, searching Richard’s face for the slightest hint of a threat before handing them over. 

*

“You’re right,” Eames says, once they’re back in the relative safety of their own hotel room for the night. “Richard’s fucking trouble.”

“Are you saying that because he did something suspicious, or because you don’t like the way he was looking at me?”

“He sounds too fucking smug. I don’t know.” Eames stalks a bit closer to where Arthur’s hanging his satchel by the door, grabbing his hips and spinning him around. “ _And_ I don’t like the way he was looking at you,” he says, backing Arthur up to the wall until he’s pressed between it and Eames’s body. 

Arthur squirms, but tilts his head back to offer his throat anyway. “I checked him out.”

“I don’t really want to hear you talking about checking Richard out right now,” Eames says softly, biting at the smooth muscle of his neck. Arthur’s pulse jumps under his tongue and he laps harder at it, like the taste of his skin might be able to help him find some calm. 

“Eames,” Arthur says, cupping his jaw and forcing his head up. “You know I think Richard is an asshole.”

He does know that, but that doesn’t change the fact he can fucking _smell_ Richard on him, far more obnoxious than the softer smell of Darcy under it. He wants to strip Arthur off and rub against every inch of him until the only things left are both of them and the growing, inexorable scent of the baby inside him.

Arthur leans in and kisses him, soft and warm and wet, stopping the snarl before it could really start. “I’m right here,” he says against his lips, pressing the swell of his stomach harder against Eames’s body. “If you need me.”

“I always fucking need you,” Eames says, licking his lower lip and fumbling for the buckles on his holster. 

Arthur reaches to help and throws the gun onto the sideboard. “You know,” he gets out between kisses, “usually I’m all for you fucking me up against a wall, but could we maybe take this to bed?”

Eames freezes and pulls back. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Arthur says defensively. “My back’s just kind of sore.”

Eames slips his hand around to rub gently at dip of Arthur’s spine. “Do you want to stop?” He doesn’t want to stop. He’s hard already just from a few kisses and the touch of Arthur’s body, but if...

“No, I want it,” Arthur says, voice shaky enough to make Eames believe it even if the way he takes Eames’s wrist and draws his hand back down between his legs didn’t. “Just on the bed, on my back.”

“I do like you on your back.” He squeezes Arthur through his pants, and his cock jerks against his palm. 

“You like me any way you can have me,” Arthur pushes his hips forward, belly brushing Eames’s forearm as he arches into the touch. “Oh.”

Eames shifts his grip again and picks Arthur up, ignoring his sharp yelp and slight pain of Arthur’s arms tightening around his neck. It’s good to be close like this, even with the frustrating barrier of Arthur’s clothes stopping him from touching any skin, and he buries his face against his throat and breathes deep before turning slowly and setting him down on the edge of the bed. 

“Thanks,” Arthur says, sitting up on his elbows while Eames carefully undoes his shoes. He takes off his socks, too, pressing brief kisses to his ankles. There at least he just smells like _Arthur_ , the skin pure and untouched by anyone else all day. 

Arthur kicks a little when he licks at the exposed skin, and Eames straightens up, toeing out of his own shoes. “Lie down,” he says.

Arthur complies, wriggling a bit further up on the bed until he can stretch out comfortably. 

The mattress dips when Eames kneels between Arthur’s legs. “What do you want?” he asks, skimming his hands up over Arthur’s thighs to settle on the mound of his belly.

“If I’m getting off and you’re happy, that’s all I want right now.”

Eames grins, leaning down to kiss the middle of Arthur’s covered stomach. “And if getting off would make me happy?”

Arthur kicks him again, but there’s no real annoyance in it. “Just touch me.”

After a whole fucking day of watching him, watching _Richard_ watch him, there’s nothing Eames really wants more. He works Arthur’s shirt out of his waistband, pushing it up with the sweater to his ribs. Laid bare like this he’s so unmistakably pregnant, the firm swell of his belly standing out against the angles of his hipbones, and the sight of it is like a dose of reassuring calm.

“I think we should send Parkinson a thank-you note,” he murmurs, kissing a line across the soft skin just above Arthur’s waistband. 

“Mmm. Maybe. Keep doing that.”

Eames nuzzles higher, breathing in the smell of Arthur’s skin and laying another kiss beside his belly button. Arthur’s always liked having his stomach touched, from gentle stroking while they’re still tied together to deep, insistent massage to match the rhythm of Eames’s fingers inside him, and Eames wonders if it feels different now, with their baby pressing the skin taut. 

He glances up at the line of Arthur’s jaw, his head tipped back against the pillows, and kisses his way back down the arc of his belly. “Can you feel her move yet?” he asks, as he sits back to undo the button and zip on Arthur’s pants.

“Him,” Arthur says with certainty, lifting his hips to let Eames pull his trousers off and throw them aside. “Not yet. Maybe soon.”

He spreads his legs wide, leaving no doubt just how welcome between them Eames would be. But as bare and vulnerable as Arthur is, Eames wants more. 

“Take your shirt off,” he says, getting up to find the tube of lube still zipped into the side pocket of his suitcase. When he turns back around Arthur’s completely naked, knees splayed and toes curling against the comforter as he strokes his own cock.

A hot thought flashes through Eames’s mind as he crawls back up between Arthur’s thighs, biting at the pale skin before closing his mouth around his cock. He wants to mark him, get under his skin and show everyone that this is _his_.

He curls one arm up over Arthur’s hip, spreading his fingers against the growing shape of his baby, _their_ baby, and holds his thighs apart with the other just to hear him moan. Arthur’s already marked, irrevocably, and Eames suddenly wants to replace all his sweaters and shirts with slightly smaller ones, distraction be damned.

“Enough,” Arthur gasps, short nails raking across Eames’s scalp. “In me.”

Eames runs his tongue around the head of his cock one last time before lifting his head and reaching the for the lube, lying on the rumpled covers by Arthur’s hip. “I thought you said I could do what I want.”

“Well yeah, but I figured that would actually include fucking me sooner rather than later.” He lifts a knee higher to offer better access. “I feel all... itchy. Not right. Richard kept standing right behind me, not close enough to mark me, but... _oh_.”

As much as it fills Eames with fierce, territorial pleasure to know that Arthur needs him on his skin as much as Eames needs to be there, he really doesn’t want to hear that fucking name one more time. He twists his fingers in gradually, two at once, feeling Arthur’s body give willingly to the pressure.

By the time he has a third in Arthur’s thighs are trembling, cock jerking with every insistent push of Eames’s fingers. “Ready?”

“More than,” Arthur says, easing his legs open even wider. 

“Your fucking legs, Arthur, I swear.” He runs his hands down his inner thighs, putting just a bit of pressure to see if he can take it, and Arthur obligingly splays them a fraction further.

“Enjoy it, because I don’t think I’ll be able to do it much longer.

Eames doesn’t need to be told twice, undoing his trousers enough to get his cock out and dragging Arthur down the bed until his legs are hooked around Eames’s waist, the slick, open heat of him teasing his foreskin. “We’ll have to put that to the test,” he grits out, pushing all the way inside in one sharp thrust.

“We’ll see if you want to when I’m... fuck, yeah, hold my hips up like that... when I get fat.”

Eames shifts his grip to Arthur’s waist, thumbs laid against the firm curve of his belly. “Not fat. Baby. _Our_ baby.”

“Yeah,” Arthur moans, pressing his palms to the bedhead for more leverage. 

All Eames can think when he finally comes, pressed close to Arthur’s damp skin with the bump of his stomach digging into him, is _why the fuck did we never do this before._

*

If Arthur notices the way Eames is more thorough about marking him for the next few days, dark bitten bruises high on throat to match the scent he rubs so carefully onto his skin and clothes, he doesn’t comment. It does the job of making Richard keep a healthier distance and soon enough everything is in place for the extraction. 

Eames strokes the soft hair at the nape of Arthur’s neck, above a fresh bite mark. Even with the morning traffic the cab ride to the Mariot from their hotel only takes about fifteen minutes, and he’s not going to turn down any opportunity to touch him just a little bit longer.

“Huh,” Arthur says, tapping at the screen on his phone. “Apparently there’s been a change of plans.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. To room 674.” Arthur frowns, digging his laptop out of the bag at his feet and flipping it open.

After a minute of flicking through documents and checking bug feeds, he picks up his phone again and offers it to Eames. “Call the hotel for me and pretend to be Johnson. Check his reservation.”

He hasn’t been practicing Johnson’s voice, but he’s heard enough surveillance to do a decent job of it. Arthur tilts the laptop screen so he can see the reservation details, pressing their knees closer together.

When Eames hangs up, adrenaline is already starting to make his muscles tense. “It hasn’t changed. He’s still in 832.”

“Fucking _asshole_ ,” Arthur snaps, and Eames knows he’s not talking about Johnson. “I checked, I did.”

“We could go anyway,” Eames says. “Take him by surprise.”

Arthur hand settles across his stomach, too offhand to be deliberate, but the gesture is like a splash of cold water in the face of how badly Eames wants to rip Richard’s face off. “Or,” he continues, “we can bail now.” He looks pointedly at Arthur’s satchel, with the open tickets to London tucked inside an inner pocket.

“I wouldn’t mind putting a bullet in his kneecaps, but bailing sounds like the smartest option right now.” He rummages in his bag again before slipping the cab driver a couple of folded notes. “Sorry for the trouble, but back to our hotel please.”

“Not the airport?” Eames says, leaning close enough to brush the edge of Arthur’s ear with his lips.

“Calculated risk,” Arthur says quietly. He rests his hand on Eames’s thigh and squeezes. “We still have two PASIVs in that hotel room, cash and documents… unless you don’t think it’s worth it.”

Arthur’s right. Arthur often is in situations like this. “In and out. Fast.”

Arthur nods, already checking flight availabilities.

*

They get back to their hotel half an hour after they left, fast enough that nobody should be suspecting anything’s amiss just yet. Eames flexes his fingers in the elevator all the way up to their floor, trying to disperse the useless anxiety trying to twist the sharp edge of his awareness. “You should stay here,” he says.

Arthur flashes him a scowl. “When have I ever needed to hide behind you.”

It’s not a question, because it doesn’t need to be. “Never. But—“

“We go together, Eames.”

Eames doesn’t say anything when Arthur lets him lead the way out of the elevator, casing the hallway for any disturbances. There’s no evidence of any tampering at their door, and a quick sniff only gleans the scent of a solitary beta who could easily be from housekeeping. The constant cleaning and movement in the hotel makes scent traces deteriorate quickly, though, so he listens for a minute before resting his hand on the door handle.

Arthur hands him the keycard and lets him go first again without protest.

The door clicks shut behind them at the exact same time the smell hits Eames’s nose. “Arthur—“

He turns around in time to see the man hidden by the door throw the first punch, hitting Arthur square in the face with a loud crack and sending him stumbling to the floor.

There’s a smart way and a stupid way of handling a fistfight in a hostile environment, but the smell of Arthur’s blood and pain shreds the leash Eames usually holds over all his baser instincts. He snarls, charges, slams the stupid fucking son of a bitch to the ground and holds him down by the throat.

“Ple—“

Eames chokes off the word, because he doesn’t care. He pulls his free hand back and drives his fist down into the guy’s face, pain streaking up from his knuckles to his elbow. It fucking hurts to break a man’s face with your hand but he draws back and punches again, and again, until warm blood splatters his face on every stroke and the guy isn’t even whimpering anymore.

He pulls back for another punch, rage still hot and pulsing in his ears, and freezes when the boom of a gunshot goes off behind him. It leaves his ears ringing and he looks up to see the second man he’d scented and immediately, stupidly, forgotten about crumpled on the carpet in a spreading pool of blood.

“A little help, please.”

The sound of Arthur’s voice softens the anger further, and it occurs to Eames that he can’t feel the rapid pulse of the man’s heartbeat beneath his fingers anymore. He lets go, shaking out the ache in his right hand. “Are you okay?” he says, hoarse, standing up.

“Yeah, just help me up.”

Arthur’s on his back, gun still gripped tight in one hand. Bright blood drips from his nose and there’s already the shadow of a bruise creeping up into his eye socket, and Eames stifles the urge to turn around and break every bone in the fucker who hit him. Instead he holds out his hand and helps haul Arthur up.

“That one there works for Parkinson,” Arthur says once he’s on his feet, touching the swelling in his cheek gingerly. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have missed this.”

“Nothing we can do about it now. Let’s just get the fuck out of here.” Eames looks around. “You clean yourself up, I’ll get our stuff.”

Both PASIVs go into one travel container, and Eames loads up their suitcases with an even split of the cash and most important documents, stepping around the still bodies on the floor. When that’s done, he looks in on Arthur in the ensuite. The sink is littered with wet, bloody towels, Arthur’s body angled so the jut of his belly stands out, and now the fury has cooled Eames is more scared than he remembers ever being.

And he wondered why they never talked about starting a family before.

“I want a smoke and a stiff drink,” Arthur says as he gathers up the things with his blood on them and stuffs them into a plastic bag.

Despite everything, Eames laughs and presses a protective hand to the back of Arthur’s neck, the other over his bump. The air is still thick with blood, but Arthur smells safe. Arthur’s safe. “I’ll buy you a bottle of the best whisky in five months, love.”


End file.
